


hope springs eternal (in the human breast)

by furorem



Series: give me things that I wanted to know [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Comfort No Hurt, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Healthy Relationships, Kaer Morhen, M/M, there is a kink in this somwhere but idk what it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23793511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furorem/pseuds/furorem
Summary: ‘It’s been a long time since an outsider visited Kaer Morhen,’ Geralt says quietly. Jaskier isn’t surprised.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: give me things that I wanted to know [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714171
Comments: 15
Kudos: 192
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	hope springs eternal (in the human breast)

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-up to Sorrow Has a Human Heart. Can be read as a One-Shot, though. Characterisations are book compliant. But wait a minute – canonically Jaskier never went to Kaer Morhen? Not in my AU.

There are a great many things to be said about living on the road. And Jaskier is determined to write it all down and convert some of it into songs. Travelling during winter is most unpleasant, especially when the road doesn’t lead them from inn to inn necessarily. He, unlike his companion, is not used to sleeping without comfort or at nature’s mercy. Fortunately, his witcher, used to touch after months of – training, is fast to share his warmth with him. It chases away the sour mood and gives him comfort. If only a little. But he shan’t complain much. Not after what poor Geralt’s heart had to endure, not when he is as free as a bird for the first time in his life. If it means cold hard ground and literally singing for his supper, so be it. He made a choice and he will live by it. It gives him something to look forward to, when after a long day of walking or riding and eating dried fruits and meats, a village appears like a magic illusion. Nothing better than flirting a few coins out of fair maidens and sharing a bed with his beloved after wintry days, putting his cold feet against Geralt’s calves to hear him grunting in mock pain.

A few weeks into their journey and he doesn’t even mind the smell. It only becomes a problem when, during their passing through, villagers ask for help instead of chasing them away, and the witcher returns covered in monster remains. For Geralt, despite longing for home, never denies them. Jaskier, ever vigilant and madly in love with the man, gains a new appreciation for the witcher. Even back in Oxenfurt when Geralt would take some contracts to earn coin, Jaskier was never an active participant, never saw what Geralt actually did, only ever heard the story afterwards. It’s incredible, how kind-hearted Geralt is. He always offers his help and only ever haggles for more money when his employer outright shows his mistrust and hate of the witcher, all just to give him a real reason to hate him. And it’s true, what Geralt once told him- sometimes people barely describe their problem. Sometimes they are truly afraid of talking to the witcher and sometimes they simply don’t know what they’re dealing with. Geralt tries to be patient and coax more information out of them, but his social skills are still lacking. Jaskier deems himself as a rich presences then. Seeing a witcher with a troubadour relaxes the simpleminded folk

Although it doesn’t relax him to see what Geralt does. In the beginning the witcher tries to keep Jaskier as far away as possible from any danger but quickly gives up on it when he realises that he is not to be swayed. Travelling with a witcher, bedding one, means being part of all the nasty sides of such an occupation as well. So he watches him with fascination dispatch of drowners, ghouls, nekkers, wraiths, or archespores up on the way to Kaer Morhen. He’s filled with anticipation at the prospect, he will have months to compose ballads and sonnets about his muse, years to gather new material. A troubadour’s profession was, after all, to educate and entertain the people. 

*

Jaskier doesn’t know what to expect of Kaer Morhen from Geralt’s stories alone and yet he’s surprised when they finally arrive at the foot of the mountain. A myriad of descriptions run through his head – from ‘impressive’ to ‘bloody hell it’s practically a ruin’. He knew of the attack and its consequences but all the stories haven’t prepared him for this. The guard towers, the walls, the bastion, all of it must have been truly stunning back when it was still standing in its entirety. Jaskier is looking forward to seeing the keep and the surrounding landscape in spring, uncovered by all the snow that lies like a blanket over mountain tops and brittle stones. He tells Geralt as much and receives a stern look. ‘Don’t be. It’s a graveyard.’ 

They arrive shortly before dusk. Winter, this far up north, is harsh. If only the sun would have peaked through the clouds and the grey mist for a few hours and warmed everything for a short time. Alas, the weather only changes from wet greyness to darkness quickly. As they approach the gates, the first snowflakes of the night gently start to fall, melting on impact with black cloaks and red noses. Roach’s even steps echo from the chasm beneath them as they cross the wooden bridge and from the walls as they finally enter the bastion.

‘We have to close the gate,’ Geralt mutters as he jumps from the saddle. Sighing, Jaskier follows. Being used to the witcher’s antics didn’t make it easier dealing with them. He knew the other man well enough by now to understand that the missing politeness, the muttering and brooding came from a place of self-consciousness, guarding his true feelings. His behaviour could only mean one thing: that being back home made him feel exposed and nervous. The question that remained to be answered was why?

Lending a hand the best way he can, Jaskier helps his companion to lower the gate with squeaking and rumbling noises, which surely must have alarmed whoever was present, and watches Geralt trudge back to Roach from underneath his hood, following closely behind as the witcher begins to guide horse and poet through the depilated keep.

‘Any reason you’re acting exceptionally brutish today?’ he asks as they deposit Roach in the stables next to three other horses, all of them looking strong and well-kept. For a moment, Geralt doesn’t even look at him, merely caresses Roach’s snout as if seeking comfort or strength. Vulnerable eyes eventually seek out his.

‘It’s been a long time since an outsider visited Kaer Morhen,’ Geralt says quietly. Jaskier isn’t surprised. It does explain quite a lot.

‘Ahh,’ he answers and nods. Then starts to unpack his belongings, feeding loyal Roach an apple for her hard work.

‘Well,’ he sighs, ‘let’s not prolong the inevitable, shall we?’

He hopes the smile he gives is more reassuring than what he actually feels. The walk from the stables to the massive entrance feels like an eternity.

Geralt, who has insects buzzing inside his body already, gets even more nervous listening to Jaskier’s heart pounding uncomfortably fast. He didn’t mean for his companion to be scared of his brethren.

‘Calm yourself,’ he says right before opening the door, ‘They won’t hurt you’ and opens it just to find Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir standing in the hall, ready to greet them.

Just to be sure, Geralt enters first and watches three pairs of eyes (one widen in shock, one narrow in suspicion and one curious) as Jaskier steps in behind him and closes the door, the booming sound deafening in the silence between them.

Pushing his hood down, Geralt greets them with a curd nod, ‘Evenin’.’ Turning around he watches as Jaskier pushes his hood down as well, grinning at the three silent witchers. ‘This is, uh –’

‘The poet and troubadour, Master Jaskier, old Redanian for buttercup, gentlemen,’ Jaskier introduces himself and struts up to the trio without fear, bowing gracefully with his upper body before them, one arm crossed above his chest, the other stretched out to his side. ‘Good evening. May I shake your hands in greeting and inquire your names?’

Geralt watches the exchange with utter mortification, barely holds back the groan threatening to leave his throat and his hand connecting with his forehead. Watches as, Vesemir, bemused, steps forward and shakes Jaskier’s hand with a smile.

‘Ah, yes. Master Vesemir. I take it Geralt has not warned you of my presence. I apologise in his stead and shall ever be grateful were you to give me shelter this winter. I’m sure I, merely a humble poet, can make myself useful as a sign of my gratitude,’ Jaskier says, covering their joined hands with his second hand, blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

Behind Vesemir, Lambert’s arms uncross with a shake of his head.

‘What the –?’ he starts to say but is interrupted by Vesemir pushing him in front of their guest. Blinking, he looks at Jaskier’s outstretched hand. In snail’s pace, he connects their palms, muttering his name. Then hurriedly retreats to have Eskel introduce himself more eloquently and nicer.

When all of it is over and everyone stares at each other awkwardly, Vesemir’s voice cuts through the tension.

‘You’re late, Geralt. We thought you would stay in Oxenfurt this year. I’m glad you’re here, there’s much to be done. But first, come, both of you. Let’s sit and eat and tell us all about your studies. I reckon you two met at the academy?’ he asks as he leads the way down the corridor into the great hall, where a fire crackles merrily and the smell of spices wafts through the air. Comforted by the familiar sight and smells, and the fact that the mortifying ordeal of introduction was over, Geralt finally relaxes, sitting next to Jaskier as the evening progresses, knees brushing gently underneath the table.

The members of his guild shoot him questioning looks all night as they share stories.

Later in bed, curled underneath the furs, Jaskier turns his head, saying, ‘Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

‘Hm, I suppose.’

‘And they’re all rather handsome. You could’ve warned me,’ he says mock pouty. A jest imbibed with some truth.

It must strike a nerve with Geralt, who changes his position from lying on his back to facing the other man, an indescribable expression on his face, made even harder to read in the dim light of flickering candles and a low fire in the hearth.

‘Out with it. What is it? What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?’

Geralt’s hand, the one not pillowing that beautiful head, creeps from its position to one of Jaskier’s, searching for strength, reassurance. Jaskier is excited to know for what. 

‘You’ve been with me for a while now. _Only_ with me,’ he whispers.

Rising an eyebrow, Jaskier says, ‘Yes?’, drawling his e. When there’s no answer, he adds, ‘What of it?’

Geralt squeezes his hand.

‘Do you…,’ he trails off, unsure how to proceed. Jaskier waits patiently. ‘Would you like to change that?’

Saying these words must have cost Geralt a great deal of effort. The witcher isn’t even able to look at his companion’s eyes, hiding his face against his arm instead.

 _Oh dear, oh dear, that won’t do_ , Jaskier thinks and turns to face the utterly vulnerable yet brave man in their bed. 

‘Would you mind?’ he asks, seeking Geralt’s eyes, catching them. ‘Would you mind, Geralt? Me seeking the companionship of others?’

The hand, not tightly grasped by another, paler one, starts to softly caress the side of Geralt’s face, brushing strands of his hair behind his ear. (Jaskier really needs to wash and cut it).

‘It’s not about what I want,’ the witcher answers, still in a hushed tone.

Jaskier sighs deeply, never stopping his ministrations.

‘Listen to me, Geralt of Rivia. Sex and love are two different things. One mustn’t include the other. I can enjoy someone’s company immensely, love them even, without ever touching them. I can also enjoy someone’s body without feeling anything beyond sexual attraction. Would I like to change it? Would I enjoy the little flirtatious dance of back and forth and some carnal pleasure? Yes. Because I don’t mind having a little fun. The world is already bleak as it is. That doesn’t mean that I love that person. But in your case, dear Geralt, sex and love are not mutually exclusive. I love you, therefore I enjoy having sex with you. And therefore I will not hurt you by sharing a bed with another while I’m with you, if that makes you uncomfortable. Do you understand?’

Geralt nods, brushing his lips against the poet’s palm as it keeps circling and circling and circling his cheek, his jaw.

‘Good. Would _you_ , at this moment in time, mind, Geralt?’

Geralt nods again. 

Humming, Jaskier brings their mouths together, closing his eyes contentedly. The kiss is unhurried and slow.

Parting, Jaskier mumbles against wet lips, ‘You can always change your mind. I wouldn’t deny another warm body behind me.’ Geralt extracts his hand just to swat at his lover’s hips.

‘You’re insatiable,’ he grumbles and tries not to smile at the husky laugh. Although his mood has lifted somewhat, Jaskier’s words still ring in his head. He waits until the laughter has subsided, stroking his hand across a hipbone, a muscled thigh, over fine hair.

‘Would you be bothered, Jaskier? If I – ,’ Geralt says and leaves the sentence unfinished.

‘No.’

‘Not even – if I – both? If I loved that person?’

Again, Jaskier chases the softness of Geralt’s lips, pulling the lower into his mouth to suck on it just to see it shining red and wet. They both feel the dull throb of arousal cursing through their blood, rushing south. But it’s only dull and neither feels like acting on it.

‘No, I wouldn’t be bothered, my dear. Just because you love another, doesn’t mean you don’t love me. I’m not one of those selfish old hags that only suck your dick if you promise them your eternal and –’

‘ _Jaskier_ ,’ Geralt says sharply.

Jaskier stops, looking softly at the witcher. He doesn’t want to ruin the mood. 

‘All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.’

This time it’s Geralt who initiates the kiss.

‘Right now, you make me happy.’

Tenderly, Jaskier rubs his nose against Geralt’s and smiles. The kisses remain soft and light, while the fire slowly burns down to embers and the wind howls outside the windows.

*

Jaskier and Geralt are given exactly one day to acclimatise literally and figuratively. The air here far up in the mountains is cleaner yet thinner. While Geralt is used to it, is barely affected by it thanks to his mutations, Jaskier can feel the change like clothes that are a bit too tight around his chest. It doesn’t stop him from wrapping some furs around his naked frame, opening the balcony doors and enjoying the crisp cold air, the snow underneath his bare feet. At least until Geralt drags him back inside, chiding him and asking if he’s trying to catch his death. The others are already up and about, having eaten, and scattered around the keep and its lands.

Breakfast at Kaer Morhen is not as opulent as in Oxenfurt, not as spicy, that’s for sure and Jaskier gains a new appreciation for the simplicity of it. As well as the keep as Geralt starts showing him around and tells him which parts are dangerous, which will be worked on and all the parts that are still approachable.

It’s quiet. So so quiet. And it would almost be idyllic if it weren’t for the mist of melancholy that permeated the air of Kaer Morhen. Seeing the old faded tapestries and paintings depicting the heroics of witchers paired with seeing and hearing how witchers were made and why it wasn’t possible anymore, gives Jaskier a new understanding of Geralt’s character and his depressive tendencies.

In contrast, the wilderness surrounding the keep is truly magnificent, true evidence of the gods’ might. If Jaskier were a painter, he would capture the beauty of the snow-covered mountains, firs and spruces withstanding the harsh weather, on canvas and oil. Words would have to suffice. Up here, where no one lives and only witchers (and one troubadour) venture, the wildlife freely roams the countryside. As Geralt leads Roach, carrying rider and companion clutching the rider’s waist, along overgrown paths, Jaskier realises how lively the woods are compared to the keep. And how wintry. Shivering, Jaskier clutches Geralt tightly, trying to melt into him for some body heat. It earns him a low chuckle from the witcher who is used to the cold. Nonetheless, it doesn’t stop Jaskier from starting a conversation about the beauty of Kaer Morhen, urging Geralt to tell him everything, commenting on some of the facts.

Coming back from their tour, Jaskier has no qualms about heaving several buckets of water up to Geralt’s room, commanding Geralt to warm it with an Igni and settling into it with a pleased groan.

‘Any louder and they’ll talk,’ Geralt chides, shedding his own clothes.

Grinning, Jaskier groans again, louder and longer with eyes closed. When he opens them, the familiar sight of Geralt’s stern look awaits him.

While he speaks his next words, he’s struck with an idea (an idea which he fully intends to turn into a plan and execute), ‘Let them talk. Give them something to gossip about. They’re probably doing it anyway – wondering how you managed to land such a great catch.’

As always Jaskier talks before he thinks and although the words were said in jest, they contain some grain of truth in Geralt’s opinion. Not deigning it with an answer for lack of one, Geralt tells Jaskier to make some room to which the bard spreads his legs with a smirk and waggling eyebrows, just to have Geralt take his legs and pull him under. He submerges with a very dignified yelp and a bit of water sloshing over the rim, emerges spluttering, his hair obscuring his vision and Geralt settling in opposite from him with a sigh.

‘You bastard!’

‘True. And not very creative, poet,’ Geralt laughs and relaxes back against the wooden wall of the tub, closing his eyes, content to soak in the water, surrounded by the scent of the salts and oils Jaskier’s inclined to use. He was fully prepared for a counterattack and gets a pleasant surprise when nothing happens. Opening his eyes again, only a slit, reveals Jaskier’s eyes roaming his body with hungry intent.

‘You want something, Jaskier?’ Geralt asks huskily, knowing what Jaskier wants, knowing what his voice can do to the other man. His own arousal, at the thought of fucking Jaskier, spikes fast, familiar heat pooling in his gut and spreading to the rest of his body. He gets another surprise as Jaskier replies, nonchalant, ‘Hmm, no. I’m good, just thinking.’

If he didn’t know Jaskier by now – his movements, gestures; his way with words; his scent – Geralt would have fallen back into the habit of doubting himself. But Geralt knew him and quickly realised that he was lying or at least telling half-truths. Instead of calling him out, the witcher waits, watching Jaskier getting the soap and washing himself, singing under his breath. Usually Geralt was a patient man, had to be if he wanted to survive and deal with people. Yet something about this situation, the tension, Jaskier’s feigned indifference, snaps that honed patience. If Jaskier wants to play games, fine.

Eyes blazing and pupils blown, adjusted to the dim light in the room to see the object of his desire (soapy residue clinging to his arms as he spreads them elegantly to wash them, water glistening on his throat and the hair on his chest) as clear as possible, Geralt cups his straining cock, satisfied when Jaskier stutters to a halt.

‘You absolute tease,’ he pouts.

‘Hm. What are you going to do about it?’

Watching it seems at first, then he mirrors Geralt. Well, his plan can wait, Jaskier thinks, mind already hazy with lust. Plenty of time to think about it, plenty of time to make it a reality.

*

Vesemir should have known better, Geralt thinks. When Jaskier said that he would help, he didn’t know what help in Kaer Morhen meant and certainly thought of something else. Although winter at the keep was supposed to be a time to recuperate and Vesemir tried to make sure there was enough food stocked to last the cold season, another hungry mouth needed to be fed and a witcher couldn’t allow his senses and reflexes to go numb.

But Jaskier wasn’t a witcher. He was an academic who hadn’t worked a day in his life with anything but his brain. The calluses on his hands came from playing various instruments, not from hard labour. And so when Vesemir asks him to wake up early and train, Jaskier loiters in bed and only wakes to watch the witchers go through practiced motions. And so when Vesemir asks him to help with the maintenance of the western wall and tower, Jaskier sits on a rock most of the time, only hauling comparatively small stones into the courtyard to be put away by someone else later, pestering Lambert and Eskel with questions. And when Vesemir asks him to help hunt their food, deer or venison or whatever seems fitting, he spooks them away simply by being too loud.

To Geralt’s dismay, Jaskier, despite having done nothing compared to the poor soul tasked with working with him, is tired come evening and out cold as soon as his head hits the bed. Soon Geralt is more cranky than usual but ignores the feelings that are the reason for it, out of shame for feeling them in the first place than confront them. If Lambert teases him about it, it’s his own fault leaving training bleeding and cursing Geralt. Eskel and his disapproving glare can sod off. 

At some point Vesemir gives up and lets the poet do as he wishes, realising that Jaskier is more hindrance than help, looking more worn down as the weeks pass and Geralt mad because he’s, well, simply spoken, _unsatisfied_ and needy. If it means that the rest of them have to endure the occasional moans ringing through the keep and the stench of sex wafting off the two of them, so be it. There were worse things to suffer in life. 

It seems that this was the right approach – for not only Geralt’s spirit is lifted, but it becomes obvious that Vesemir approached the existence of their guest wrongly. As he’s sorting through the ingredients for witcher potions, making a list of things they’d need to restock, Jaskier, rather curious and with a keen eye joins him. The questions he asks are smart and insightful and Vesemir finds himself riding out with the poet, professor or whatever he is, to show him what plants contain Fulgur, which Rebis ,Vermilion, Quebrith and all the other ingredients, tells him in which monster to find them.

Jaskier learns fast and soon he is able to distinguish between Swallow and Petri’s Philter by the difference in colour, knows how to brew White Raffard’s Decoction. All the while he’s squeezing information out of Vesemir about Alzur, the witcher’s medallion and the signs he’s seen Geralt use.

Vesemir comes to realise another thing – the reason why he’s earned Geralt’s affection. It’s been a long time since someone started a conversation with them out of thirst for knowledge and a desire to know him, them, and even longer since someone did not judge them or hate them for what they were. Even Lambert, prone to acts of meanness and cruel words, has taken a liking to their guest. There’s no malice in Jaskier’s words, not hate in his gaze, only empathy and curiosity. In Jaskier’s eyes, witchers were ordinary men with dangerous professions.

_In many ways, Kaer Morhen isn’t so different from Oxenfurt._

_And why’s that, Master Jaskier?_

_Isn’t it obvious? It’s a place of knowledge. And of learning. Which makes the sad differences even more striking._

Vesemir doesn’t know if it’s naivety or stupidity or something else entirely. What he does know is, that Geralt has managed something neither of them had accomplished in their long lives. Vesemir hadn’t understood Geralt’s desire to attend Oxenfurt Academy. Now he does. And was glad for it. So glad that he lets Jaskier stay in the library for days on end, reading and sorting the big tomes and old scrolls until he falls asleep and has to be carried to bed by Geralt.

*

Some time before the spring equinox, when the cold north winds stop wiping around the keep and the ice slowly melts under the sun’s first few shy rays, Jaskier disappears from morning to evening without anyone knowing where to – even Geralt shrugs his shoulders as he’s asked but continues eating his lunch without worry.

Then, when Geralt is out hunting for some bear with Eskel, Jaskier approaches Vesemir with a strange yet easy request, knowing that Lambert would probably deny him: to help him fill the bathtub with water and light the fireplace with an Igni. The old witcher complies, trying not to think about what the poet is up to.

As the sun slowly begins to set beyond the horizon, Geralt and Eskel reappear, dragging the cadaver of a huge bear behind them. Upon hearing their return, Lambert and Vesemir are outside immediately and begin to help taking the beast apart, harvesting nearly every single part of it. For a while Jaskier watches their precise movements and the synchronisation with which it happens but dusk falls and unlike the witchers, his eyesight fails him in the dark. He sets out do prepare everything for dinner instead and stoke the fire in his and Geralt’s room.

With everyone’s belly filled and drowsy from a long day and dinner in good company, Jaskier is quick to make his exit by the end of the evening, not so subtly indicting for Geralt to follow him, commented by Lambert’s fake vomiting noises which earns him Eskel’s elbow to the ribs and starts an argument. Vesemir only shakes his head and goes to bed with a yawn. 

*

Meanwhile, upstairs, Geralt is greeted by a warm candlelit room and a full bathtub that Jaskier asks him to heat up before he tells him to strip. Raising an inquiring eyebrow, Geralt does so. As he is about to get into the water, Jaskier, barefoot but still clothed, with the sleeves of his chemise rolled up, gently grabs his arm and shakes his head with a smile.

‘No, Geralt,’ he says, stepping closer, the fine material of his shirt brushing against Geralt’s bare chest, ‘Spring is arriving. And uhm I wanted to thank you for – everything.’ His hands glide from Geralt’s chest to his hips, settling there securely, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. And yellow eyes hungrily staring at him.

‘Do you know how the elves bathed? Their rituals? Have you ever heard about the old thermae buried underneath human cities and their purpose? No wonder we’re judged as filthy. Compared to that.’

Regarding the poet as he turns to the table next to the tub, Gerlat says, ‘Of course I have, where are you going with this?’

‘Oh dear, you’re really slow witted sometimes,’ he says, turning around with a small bowl smelling pleasantly of verbena, mint and thyme.

While Geralt is still sniffing the air, looking at the poet like a fish out of water, wrapping his head around the situation, Jaskier is already down on his knees applying the oil carefully and smoothly with a brush. For Geralt, who is still slowly getting used to tender touches and caring acts, the implications are so foreign that it takes him a while – in fact until Jaskier has finished both his legs and is starting with his torso with an amused smile – for him to catch up. The breath he’s been holding escapes him in a rush. Jaskier, humming some melody, entranced by the motions of his own hand and Geralt’s shining skin, stops at the sound and looks at Geralt.

‘Thank you, Jaskier.’

The witcher is nearly crying. And here Jaskier is, the night and what he’s got planned not even close to over.

Holding his gaze, Geralt leans forward, eyes wandering to plump lips, eager to taste them. But a finger stops him.

‘Not yet, my dear.’

Jaskier laughs at the familiar pout that forms on Geralt’s face, dips the brush back into the oil, finishes with the front and walks around the witcher to start with his back.

‘Relax and enjoy it,’ he whispers and places a peck against one scarred shoulder blade.

Now that his mind has caught up with his body, Geralt can indeed enjoy it. The combination of the soft strokes, the refreshing smell of the oil and Jaskier’s humming create such a comfortable atmosphere that Geralt falls into a state of meditation. Every brush stroke is like balm to the scars littering his body and soul. He doesn’t open his eyes when Jaskier’s finished and leaves his side- tracks him by smell and footsteps alone- doesn’t open them as something blunt starts scratching over his legs first, then his torso and lastly his arms, removing the oil. It tickles sometimes and Geralt tries not to jerk, earning him a low laugh each time, other times, as the oils is scraped of his inner thighs or his pectorasl, his bottom, he shivers. During the procedure, Geralt is surprised by himself. Letting someone touch him so intimately without hearing the voice that was trained into him, which usually tells him to always watch himself. While trust always comes easy to him where Jaskier is concerned, _this_ is something else. The answer to his inner conflict is easy. So easy and yet – he isn’t supposed to feel this way.

Witchers weren’t supposed to feel.

Witcher’s weren’t’ supposed to –

‘I wish I could put into words what I feel for you,’ he blurts while Jaskier scrapes the last of the oil from Geralt’s wrist, unaware of the turmoil, yet aware of the warmth surging through Geralt’s body, painting his skin a light pink, the way his heartbeat is faster than usual, pulsing against his fingers. Hearing these words, Jaskier stops, looks at Geralt’s serious and amazed face and beams. Beams like he was the sun personified. 

‘Don’t worry, Geralt. That’s what I’m here for. I’m the poet after all. We wouldn’t want the people to be scared of an eloquent witcher,’ he laughs and steps back, holding Geralt’s sword calloused hand between his, flushed with happiness. ‘Now. All done, in you go, good man.’

‘I’m not an imbecile, I can get in myself.’

‘I know. I’m just trying to be virtuous,’ Jaskier smiles but lets go nonetheless to roll up his sleeves further. With satisfaction and what could only be described as deepest adoration, he watches as Geralt sinks into the water with a bark, muttering ‘virtuous’ under his breath as if his witcher ears have betrayed him.

A sense of pride overcomes him at the way Geralt relaxes into the water, looking carefree and happy. He takes a moment to capture the image, knowing that it was brief and fleeting. Soon they would leave the save walls of Kaer Morhen and Geralt would fall back into old patterns, plagued by his inability to protect his heart. It is he that brings Jaskier back to the task at hand by asking, ‘Will you not join me?’

‘No, my dear. Lean forward, please,’ he answers and watches the lean muscles move underneath the thin layer of fat the wticher has been able to acquire during winter. This too will soon be gone.

Taking the flat steel bowl he’s found in the pantry, Jaskier pours water over hair that has become grey with filth due to the day’s activities, filling the silence between them with the gurgling sound of water and crackling of the fire. Once satisfied he takes the soap he’s made by himself days prior. As he starts massaging Geralt’s head, covering his snow-white hair in soap smelling of herbs and spring, Geralt, like a big cat, leans into the touch with appreciative little noises for as long as Jaskier needs to bring his hair back to its original beautiful shine. Rinsed but knotted, he takes the bone comb he has on his person at all times and careful starts combing through the fine strands, humming the whole time, content and absorbed in his work.

When he’s finished he rids himself of his chemise lest it’ll get wet and pushes Geralt, who goes without any resistance, against the rim of the tub, his head leaning against Jaskier’s shoulder as he dunks a soaped cloth under water. Just like before, Jaskier starts scrubbing and washing the witcher, starting with his neck, shoulders and arms in slow strokes. Each finger on each hand is cleaned, the dirt underneath his short fingernails removed. Finished and smiling he wets and lathers the cloth again, going down Geralt’s chest, enjoying the shudders and noises he receives for his effort, brushing his lips against his neck. And down to his abdominals where he stops. Geralt, whose head is turned into Jaskier’s neck, joyed and overwhelmed at the attention and sheer comfort, stirs and opens his eyes, pupils blown and reflecting the light in the room. Jaskier never gets tired of watching them adjust.

‘Why’d you stop?’

‘I need you to turn around and lean against the other side, please,’ Jaskier answers. Geralt complies but not without his famous sulking that he swears doesn’t exist and which wouldn’t to anyone without a schooled eye at his expressions. With graceful motions, he changes sides, arms leaning against the tub, frowning yet provoking at the same time with the way he stares at Jaskier, arousal on display.

Although his breeches are uncomfortably tight, undisturbed and rather amused, Jaskier takes the first leg by its ankle and starts the whole procedure anew, from toes to thighs, skirting around Geralt’s erection, grinning and humming. And again: the sole of the witcher’s foot, ticklish; over his ankle, sensitive; calf, strong and lean; his thigh –

‘Stop waxing poetry in your head and touch me already,’ Geralt finally barks, his demand lessened by his shaky voice. Instead, Jaskier walks around the tub, watched by two glowing hungry eyes and sits on the rim as Geralt makes room for him. Watching his witcher, capturing his eyes, he gently tucks some dried strands of moonlight behind an ear, his hand dwelling on a warm check to calm his temper and leans down to the eager mouth to trade passionate kisses with a man who, by all means, shouldn’t know what love or passion was. Yet here they were.

With a heavy heart he detaches himself from Geralt’s lips, nods to another bowl filled with salt and cloves and a twig and says, ‘Finish up’ and rids himself of his last clothing, ready to take Geralt’s hand. Just so they can stumble into their bed, kissing and smiling.

Geralt, feeling clean and warm and loved, lying on top of Jaskier, kissing behind his ear, whispers, ‘Will you touch me now hmm? Make me filthy again?’

The only real answer is for Jaskier to turn them around, to perch atop his witcher and smile down at him. 

‘That and more. Now be a good man and take that oil over there and coat your fingers, no, wait pass it to me,’ he says leaning down on his forearms, ‘now, _yes,_ ’ the rest of his sentence lost in a loud moan.

To Geralt this whole evening feels like a fever dream, like he drunk one too many elixirs or steins of vodka. It always does when he’s allowed to be with Jaskier this way. Back at Oxenfurt he would’ve been content to have Jaskier’s friendship. To have _this_ , all of it, is intoxicating. He can’t be faulted for being mesmerized by every detail of the man above him, to bask in his very presence. Can’t be for getting drunk on being allowed to touch the most private part of Jaskier’s body and revel in the feeling of it, of giving him pleasure. He, a witcher, broken down and mutated to hunt and kill. But here he is, surrounded by the smell of verbena as Jaskier tells him to stop just so he can apply oil on Geralt’s hardness and sink down on it, groaning loudly.

Geralt is absolutely fine with Jaskier setting the rhythm for now, watching from hooded unhuman eyes (and tracing his hands made for brutality along the poet’s legs and hips to grab his bottom and help him) as this beautiful human being writhes above him, voicing his pleasure via husky moans, trying to devour Geralt’s mouth in between.

When he senses that Jaskier is more strained than pleasured, he rolls them around, watching closely and with satisfaction as he sinks back into heat of Jaskier’s body. Out of some sense of stunted romanticism, he controls his heartbeat to beat to the rhythm of Jaskier’s heart, comforted yet excited by the twin sound. Smiling, he starts moving again and leans down to steal more kisses, to receive the embrace waiting for him and feel blunt human fingernails scratch marks into his back that will fade but enrich his soul more than the scars given to him by violence.

If he so desired he could start moving faster but he doesn’t want to, he wants to savour this – this moment, this night, this act born out of love. No. Slow and gentle, coaxing all kinds of sounds out of the poet. Until he unwinds his arms, pressing his palms against Geralt’s chest, pushing him back, moving first the witcher and then himself, sitting in his lap, one arm slung around his shoulders to use them as an anchor. The other hand traces along Geralt’s face, over his cheekbone and nose, his lips, appreciatively.

‘You’re beautiful, you know? Don’t look at me like that, it’s true. An utter delight. _Ah!_ _Geralt!_ ’

Geralt hides his own moan against Jaskier’s neck, lips tasting the sweat gathering there. Jaskier’s heart begins to race. He’s close to his release. He’s chasing it, all the while looking at Geralt.

‘Please,’ Geralt whispers and that’s all it takes for Jaskier to get them over the edge. Geralt is sure the whole keep will have heard them but he doesn’t care, his world narrowed down to this bed, body swamped by happiness. Blissed out, he blacks out. He comes back to himself as Jaskier cleans them with the water gone cold by now, just to be lulled to sleep shortly after as the man crawls into his arms, tracing patterns across his chest, humming again, the scent of verbena, mint, thyme and themselves surrounding him.

In contrast, the next morning greets him with Jaskier crawling all over him, impatient and horny, burying his face between Geralt’s thighs, staining the sheets. He’s definitely not to blame that the sight of his lover grinning and wiping away the spit and semen from his chin, compels Geralt to chain them to the bed longer.

When, eventually, they’re both satisfied, Jaskier, with a dramatic sigh, lies down on top of Geralt, ‘Enjoy it while I’m young.’

To which Geralt can only huff and answer, ‘What am I supposed to say? I’m thirty years older.’

‘No comparison. Witcher stamina and – ‘

Someone hammers against the door. ‘I know you’re awake. Get descent and come help.’ Vesemir. 

‘He’s like my teachers at temple school. Without the beatings,’ Jaskier complains looking at the door and then at Geralt. Geralt, whose chest constricts at the thought of Jaskier suffering and holds him tighter as if to protect him from the shadows of his past.

‘Why did they do that,’ he asks quietly, his only connection to temples being the Temple of Melitele in Ellander where Nenneke, who was like a mother to many, reigned, stern yet loving. One of the few people who actually liked him. 

Jaskier waves his hand in refusal, getting on his knees.

‘Am I asking you about your sorry childhood?’

‘Yes. All the time.’

Even though Geralt’s eyebrows knit together sceptically, his eyes rake over the other’s body. Jaskier must see his hunger as a smug steals itself onto his face, watching Geralt wet his lips unconsciously. Swinging a leg over Geralt’s torso, he leans over him, mischief in his eyes, forgetting that Vesemir is waiting outside, probably smelling their spiking excitement.

‘You lustful little nymph,’ he rejoices, voice lilting up, ‘again?’

‘Rusalka more like.’

Boom boom boom.

‘I am serious. Get out or I’ll get in and drag the both you out of this room.’

The old witcher’s threat is ignored by the occupants of the room, who are rather engrossed in each other. Geralt’s hands are tangled in Jaskier’s hair, tongue tracing his lips, met by its partner and tasting himself on it. A moan escapes them both. And Geralt can’t help himself but grab Jaskier’s backside firmly, pushing him against his growing cock.

It is that moment that Vesemir has had enough and effectively opens the door with Aard, forcing the two of them to part and Jaskier scrambling off the younger witcher, covering himself with some fur, smiling at a stormy looking Vesemir. Geralt, much more leisurely, nearly lethargic, does the same, angry at being disturbed. 

Jaskier, the bold bastard, legs crossed, braces his chin elegantly against his hand and says, ‘My, my, Master Vesemir, some establishments take coin for these services, you know?’

*

Come spring the world around them comes alive – trees shaking the last snow from their leaves, the scent of blooming flowers hanging in the air, the sun breaking through the clouds. They stay until the spring equinox to enjoy those last few days of serenity. Soon though, they both grow restless, and depart with heartfelt goodbyes to Vesemir and Eskel, who will be the last to leave.

On the way down the mountain, Roach trudging along the ‘Killer’, Jaskier at the front, leaning against the witcher, starts strumming his lute in a melody he’s heard from another troubadour at Oxenfurt.

‘I’ve composed a new ballad. Would you like to hear it, Geralt?’

Geralt’s focus shifts from the way ahead of them to the bard caged in his arms, merrily strumming and humming. He allows himself a moment of inadvertence to kiss one stubbly rosy cheek, murmurs, ‘You’ll do it anyway.’

Jaskier grins and starts,

‘ _Under the lime tree  
On the heather,  
Where we had shared a place of rest,  
Still you may find there,  
Lovely together,  
Flowers crushed and grass down-pressed.  
Beside the forest in the vale,  
Tándaradéi,  
Sweetly sang the nightingale.  
_  
 _I came to meet him  
At the green:  
There was my truelove come before.  
Such was I greeted —  
Heaven's Queen! —  
That I am glad for evermore.  
Had he kisses? A thousand some:  
Tándaradéi,  
See how red my mouth's become.  
_  
 _There he had fashioned  
For luxury  
A bed from every kind of flower.  
It sets to laughing  
Delightedly  
Whoever comes upon that bower;  
By the roses well one may,  
Tándaradéi,  
Mark the spot my head once lay.  
_  
 _If any knew  
He lay with me  
(May God forbid!), for shame I'd die.  
What did he do?  
May none but he  
Ever be sure of that — and I,  
And one extremely tiny bird,  
Tándaradéi,  
Who will, I think, not say a word.’ _

**Author's Note:**

> References  
> 1\. Title: An Essay on Man: Epistle I by Alexander Pope  
> 2\. Song: Unter den Linden – Walter von der Vogelweide / Modern English Translation by Raymond Oliver
> 
> Comments are appreciated. If you find any mistakes, feel free to point them out. Thanks!


End file.
